


Wrought Iron and Amethyst

by ArchangelUnmei



Series: The Nation Rings [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 17th Century, Biting, Gen, Hate Sex, M/M, Political Alliances, Politics, england standing off in a corner because europe doesn't like him again, formalized alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm not 'making an appearance', France," the other Nation's name nearly sticks in his throat, and England lets his lip curl. There are no diplomats watching now, no kings or governors present to judge how they behave. Not even any other Nations, so why bother with any pretenses at all? "I'm here because I'm forced to be, because half my nobles are in love with your fancy golden mirrors. You think I'd be here if I had any choice in the matter? I'd rather be at sea."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrought Iron and Amethyst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shachaai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/gifts).



> Set very roughly in the 1650's, at the beginning of Louis XIV's reign in France and during England's brief Commonwealth period under Oliver Cromwell. Huge thanks to Shacha for help with the historical research and fussing.
> 
> This was inspired by, of all things, a Homestuck fanfic. [Hemostuck](http://archiveofourown.org/series/8470), by urbanAnchorite and roachpatrol. Two particular elements; the bitey hatesex, and the idea of wearing rings as a sort of formalized declaration of relationships, with extra meaning coded in, not just 'wedding rings'.

At the shining palace of Versailles, there is a party every night, or at least that's how the stories go. Sometimes they're true, week-long festivals that stretch on night after wine-soaked night, nobles and dignitaries and diplomats flush and sparkling with their own Goddamned success. 

England hates the parties, especially the French ones, especially the ones he's forced to go to practically at knife point, in heels and a frock coat and not nearly enough gold. He feels like a grubby little backwoods boy at Versailles, like he hasn't felt in _ages_ , and he spares a thought to snarl at the general idea of the Commonwealth (again). At least this time it's a masquerade, and he'll be able to sidle along after his ambassador for just long enough that the beastly man will be satisfied that England is making an _effort_ , and then slide off into obscurity among a thousand other masked faces. 

He takes a certain odd delight in his mask, not the least because he crafted it himself, hand-sewn sequins and tiny blue glass pendants that tickle his cheeks but look damn elegant when they catch the light. No pompous feathers for him, but a spray of delicate false leaves curling back around the eyes and ears, fae in a way that sometimes it seems England alone remembers, in a way that he hopes unsettles the pompous French pretenders when they see it. 

When he arrives, sliding in along the edges of the crowd and feeling grumpy already at the swirls of _French_ slithering into his ears, he can spot France from across the room, mincing along in the shadow of his king. He looks like he's wearing an entire peacock on his head, and when he winds a little closer England sees that he _is_. The feathers are swept back to mingle with his golden curls, the leather piece down over his nose tooled to look like the bird's graceful head and neck. He's dressed all in iridescent greens and purples to match, his coat long in the back, almost brushing the ground to give the illusion of tail feathers. 

In England's humble opinion, he looks like an _ass_. 

France's hands are heavy with rings. Any of the fawning nobles would take them for simple ornamentation, but England can decode the meanings behind the lovely jewels, sees them for what they are. Alliance rings. Treaty trinkets, if the Nation in question is feeling cynical (and England is very cynical when it comes to France's rings). 

Prussia's is the most ostentatious, adorning the pointer finger of France's right hand, finely tooled white gold and a huge dark stone. It's a garnet, so dark it can be mistaken for black until the light hits it just right and it sparkles with bloody light. France has had it for decades, and though by all rights he should have exchanged it for Holy Rome's more muted cut sapphire, he settled it next to Prussia's gaudy eyesore instead. 

The third finger is almost startlingly bare, the extravagantly sparkly Spanish ruby that usually sits there undoubtedly dropped in a drawer somewhere back in France's chambers or possibly thrown melodramatically into the Seine. France always acts like a slighted child when he's at war, particularly with his friends, and England makes a mental note to make sure he needles France about that as much as he can tonight. 

The smallest finger on his right hand is circled by a slim, elegant band of rose gold, unadorned as befitting a colony, twin to the one that suddenly seems uncomfortably warm around England's own right pinkie. 

His other hand is just as bad; Austria's neat silver-and-sapphire band, Poland and Lithuania's iron-and-topaz, Denmark's shining shell and pearl, Italy's brilliant white diamond. 

England is terribly conscious of the lightness of his own hands; Scotland and Ireland won't let him wear their rings even though he's entitled, and Wales' neat square citrine is lovely but less than impressive. He has his New World colony's ring too, but that's hardly going to turn heads in this crowd. 

He stays and lurks at the edges of the hall, refusing French wine and thinking longingly of deep wild forests, or even the deck of a proper ship at sea, dark above and dark below and tilting beneath his feet (he'd be steadier there than he is here). He's far more comfortable stripped to the waist and soaked in brine than he ever will be in any corner of magnificent Versailles. 

At some point he slips out of the ballroom and into the gardens, twisting pathways strung with lanterns and riddled with benches and small leafy alcoves. These are generally occupied by the younger class of nobles, those who want to pretend to be coy while they play grab-hands under bodices and breeches, hiding behind the helpful anonymity of their masks. 

It is as he wanders along the quiet(er) paths that France finds him, the clicking of heels against the stone paths the only warning England gets before strong, familiar fingers close around his wrist. He stiffens, but refuses to turn toward France as the other Nation moves close behind him, rubbing his thumb in a teasing (threatening) way over England's colony's ring. 

"I didn't know you were planning to make an appearance tonight, Angleterre. I think I'm insulted you didn't come greet me properly." France's voice fairly thrums with power, even when he's speaking in an undertone. His lips nearly brush England's ear, and the feathers on his stupid mask do, tickling at England's neck and scalp. He suppresses a shiver, feeling France's fingers tighten around his wrist, and has to swallow before he can form a proper answer. 

"I'm not 'making an appearance', France," the other Nation's name nearly sticks in his throat, and England lets his lip curl. There are no diplomats watching now, no kings or governors present to judge how they behave. Not even any other Nations, so why bother with any pretenses at all? "I'm here because I'm forced to be, because half my nobles are in love with your fancy golden mirrors. You think I'd be here if I had any choice in the matter? I'd rather be at sea." 

"Yes, of course," France's voice is an odd mix of mockery and an almost genuine undertone of pity, the hand not holding England's wrist sliding around his waist, drifting up to palm his chest, his heart. For a moment England wishes he could see his expression, but even if he bothered to turn they are both wearing masks. 

How disgustingly symbolic. 

Suddenly fed up with the whole damn thing, England twists around in France's arms, his fingers coming up to hook under the edge of that ridiculous peacock mask. In a wild moment without thought he tugs upward to fling the mask aside, uncaring if he pulls at France's perfectly coiffed curls or scratches his skin or gouges out an eye. France jerks back with a short shriek of surprised outrage, but it's too late, the awful feathered headgear landing somewhere in the dark bushes. 

France stares at him, blue eyes sharp in the lantern light, cheeks flushed and lips curled in a snarl of his own, a few stray curls pulled loose to hang along his jaw. He's still holding onto one of England's wrists tightly, and England shifts his stance wider, preparing for a fight. 

But when France jerks him sharply forward, instead of a fist meeting his jaw it's teeth, France nipping sharply at his jaw before crushing him into a proper kiss. England tenses, and for a moment they fit together at all the wrong angles, knees and hips and stubborn, sharp elbows. England scrabbles his hands across France's back, feels the telltale laces of a corset under the fancy coat, and hooks his fingers in to give himself a handhold. 

But he's already giving in, he knows he is, because it's not like they've never done this before. He shifts, just a little, just enough so that they don't fit together quite so awkwardly, so that France can slip an arm around the small of his back and angle his head for a proper kiss. 

England bites him instead, yanks as hard as he can manage on the corset laces, just because he can. France breaks the kiss and pulls back with a slightly breathless gasp, his cheeks flushed brighter than they were just a moment ago, his eyes darker and glittering in the low light. "Not here," he manages, his voice somehow husky and breathless all at once. 

England gives him a sharp grin, all teeth and devoid of humour, and is gratified to see France's expression visibly slip. "Why not? Some of us are wearing masks." 

(He's never been more fae, France thinks. Standing in the darkened garden, green eyes and viscous smile and a mask of leaves, England looks _so_ like the little wild boy France encountered all those centuries ago, no matter how finely he's dressed.) 

England's teeth are harsh as they catch at his bottom lip, jarring France out of his thoughts and startling a low moan from his throat. England feels his hands fumbling at the back of his jacket, and yanks on the corset laces again, shoving France back off the lit path and into the nearest strand of small, ornamental trees. France tries to make some protest, about gardeners or _etiquette_ or something else that England couldn't give a flying fuck about, and in any case he shuts up when England scrapes his teeth down his throat. 

"You started this," England mutters against his jaw, low and rough, and is treated to a breathless laugh from France and one of his hands slipping under England's coat to grab for his ass. England finally lets go of his corset, but only so he can wrap both hands in the fancy silk of his shirt and shove him back against a fragrant ornamental pear tree, biting hard enough at his lower lip that he tastes the tang of blood. 

And how many times is it now, that he's bitten France or the other way around, during sex or on the battlefield or while patching each other up afterward or (once but memorably) at a treaty signing? How many bites, how much blood spilled, and does it even really matter anymore? France gives as good as he gets, sucking bright bruises along England's neck, leaving smears of his own blood in his wake that he laps up on the return trip. 

Every touch is electrifying. England's lost his mask at some point, though he's really not sure when France had a free hand to make use of, since they're both currently occupied pulling England's shirt free of his trousers and running cold fingers along his sides. He hisses a bit, arching back and shooting France a hard look. 

"You're not planning to palm me off while wearing all those trinkets, are you?" 

"Darling," France purrs at him, eyes so heavy that England shudders, nimble fingers already undoing his belt, "At this point it is the only way Europe will touch you at all." 

That stings, and England bares his teeth again, bites at France's throat until his moans drown out the buzzing in his head. The first touch to his cock sends his hips jerking forward with a humiliating mewling sound, and the flash of triumph in France's eyes is almost too much to bare. 

It isn't very good, certainly not the best between them, cold and exposed and both of them trying to keep quiet, but it's only a prelude and they both know that too. England takes a certain viscous pleasure in the look of dismay on France's face as he realizes the mess he's made of his rings (take that, Prussia), and even though his legs still feel rather gelatinous he pulls his pants up and grabs France by the coat before he can figure out what next. 

England takes control this time, presses the kiss until France mewls and clutches at his sleeves, smearing England's own come across his coat (it won't come clean, and it's obvious what it _is_ , but England couldn't care less since he'll likely never wear it again _anyway_ ). He breaks the kiss only to growl against France's lips, "Nearest bed, _now_." 

France laughs, high and thin, eyelids fluttering in the barest, hazy-eyed blink and lips swollen from sharp bites and sucking kisses (they'll both look far worse come morning). "Forceful tonight, are we?" 

England growls and resists the urge to punch him, because he's learned the hard way that closed fists tend to take things in the _opposite_ direction of where he wants them to go. "You started it." 

It's such a childish answer that France laughs again (a little less breathy and a little more real) and delivers another nip to England's jaw before fisting a hand in his lapel and pushing off from the tree. (He's wearing leggings, and England is smug to see he's definitely aroused.) "This way, then." 

France leads them to an empty guest room that he assures England will remain empty for as long as they need it. England impatiently begins stripping himself down nearly as soon as the door is closed. (Eager to get his hands on France, to press bruises to that soft skin and bask in the empire's light, to drink down his blood and his moans and his sighs, to have his own back flayed open as so _often_ happens with France's goddamn manicured nails.) 

He only looks up when France is tossing his shirt aside, and then he stares. Not at the corset, that's standard and in other years under other rulers England would probably be wearing one too. No, France is wearing a pair of rings around his neck, strung on a silver chain. Startled enough that he's not even thinking about sex, England takes a step toward him before he realizes it, sure he's mistaken. 

But he's not. Both those rings are recognizable on sight; the fine gold and many-faceted ruby from Spain, the vine-patterned wrought iron and amethyst that represents England himself. He remembers giving it to France grudgingly, years ago, when they were both still very young and wary under their very first official peace, slipping it onto his finger like a maiden's handfast band. "France-" 

His voice fails him, and France blinks up at him. Whatever is on his face, France's own expression doesn't change, he just reaches up to brush his fingers over the rings where they rest against his breastbone. His voice is a quiet murmur, like he's explaining starlight to a blind man. "You, and Spain, and Prussia, you are the ones most constant in my life, the ones I always seem to find myself fighting with and fighting against. I suspect Spain and I will be at peace again within the decade, so why bother putting his ring away when I'm going to have it back on my finger soon enough?" 

England snorts, but he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, an odd tight feeling in his gut that has nothing to do with the prospect of sex. "And mine?" 

France's smile is sharp, and gentle, and bitter, and warm, and a mirror of all the emotions England feels for him but would never admit. "I could not be rid of you if I tried. God knows I have tried." 

That seems to be all the answer they need. 

France won't actually _wear_ England's ring again for decades. And even then, not for very long. In the morning, England will gather up his clothes while France is still wrapped up in the sheets and slip out without a word, a parody and a twin to so many other mornings in so many other places. 

But knowing that France keeps his ring close, even if he's not wearing it, England takes that knowledge with him and folds it up with all the other secrets he keeps. 

And this morning, this one time, France breaks their morning-after vow of silence, and catches at England's shoulder as he's rolling out of bed. France is still sleepy and sex-warm, his curls tousled and skin darkening with bruises. His eyes are open merest slits, and England doesn't even bother to look at him, only pauses in the act of getting out of bed. 

"You and I are so intertangled, Angleterre, I could sooner live without the sun." 

England's lips quirk up at the delicious heresy, and he glances down long enough to catch France's gaze. They hold there, a moment, but they both have other things, better things to do, and they know it. England gets up, puts on his clothes, and leaves. 

He has France's extravagantly tooled sapphire ring at home, locked in a box buried at the back of his wardrobe, where not even the maids bother going. After that night, he doesn't do anything sentimental like get it out to look at it, or start carrying it because France does. That's not how Nations work, that's not what the rings are meant to represent. 

But, he might concede, they could.

**Author's Note:**

> There may be an awful historical in-joke in there somewhere that involves the historical origin of a modern word, cookies to anyone who isn't Shacha who finds it.
> 
> Some of the ring stones have particular meanings, some of them don't. I mostly went for ones that I thought looked nice or somehow symbolized the Nation. The only one I put real thought into was Prussia's.


End file.
